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Saturday, May 12, 2007

Planet Manola: Cleavage Conundrum

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently.

The South Beach Steering Committee, Lincoln Road

What can I say? At a very jaded 39 years of age (none the worse for wear), I have suddenly become aware of THE POWER OF BOOB. Never mind that Rubens and Goya channeled me before I was even born and that my girls have been exhibited proudly at many renown museums and art galleries around the world. Never mind that in my wild South Beach days I wouldn't leave the house without a credit card, a pack of condoms and décolletage. No, never mind all that -- it took my BFF Nectarina to point out the obvious to me yesterday:

"Girl, do you know that guy? He's been staring lustfully at you for the last ten minutes with a smirk on his face!"

"No, I don't know him," I answer as he scoots away on his moped.

"Girl, you got boob power."

What? I'm wearing a baggy, old Target tank top. I'm not even remotely showing tit, because believe me, as any South Beach girl knows, if you want to show tit, twat or toe it's not only easy, it's acceptable. It's hot and muggy as a rutting elephant's ass, anyway. Stubble-free armpit is as far as sartorial finesse goes in this climate; tailored twats are more important than haberdashery.

But still, to be stared at like a sidewalk peep show and not even benefit from the price of emission?

Sure, in my baggy, old Target tank top, you can see a little pathway from the hills into the valley of pleasure, but what's the big deal? Aren't model types with fake boobs parading before us in this tourist haven? Doesn't everyone's stylist down here have a background in professional fluffing?

And it made me wonder: could it possibly be that men are finding naturally beautiful, intelligent, vivacious women with a modicum of class far more interesting? Or do I have a sign plastered on my forehead that says BLOW JOBS 99 cents?

It wouldn't be the first time last night I'd receive lustful stares.

Alas, there are more questions than answers to the cleavage conundrum. But I do know this, ladies: there is nothing more beautiful, more powerful and more intoxicating than knowing age is but a number and that sexy is about not being the insecure, pitiful younger version of yourself, smaller jeans and tighter shirts not withstanding.

Here's the real conundrum: Being beautiful and not appreciating yourself: worthless. Being who you are and appreciating yourself as beautiful: priceless.

I know so many women who find fault with themselves even when they are dazzling beauties. I invite you to come to the place I've found. Come to the real South Beach of your mind, not the cover of magazines nor the adolescent fantasies of men. This is Manola's South Beach and it's accessible to anyone with guts and chutzpah, I don't care if you're flat-chested or have nuclear warhead nipples.

While sipping Trappist Ale at The Crabby Bar, Nectarina and I met some gentleman. One of them was gay and told me: "You're at least a C-cup."

Yes, my darling. A C-cup and so much more, a world of wonder here on this little island. I'll raise my cup of Chimay to that!

So is the Trappist Ale really brewed by the spiritual descendants of the Cistercians reformed at the behest of St. Bernard (BUR-nerd, not bur-NARD) of Clairveaux sometime near the end of the 11th Century? Or is it just a cute name designed by some former monk to pry dollars from the hands of the naive?

About the Author

Award-Winning Writer and Multimedia Storyteller, Founder of HeartCamp. Travel, Food, Social Media, Sex, Nature, Culture, Pirates, Humor, Yoga, Kitchen Sink. Whatever tickles my fancy and other parts. I tell like it is. Learn more at Linkedin.
All posts under the Manola Blablablanik series, this blog's original nom de plume, are semi-fictional.